


Their Paris

by GrantaireandHisBottle



Series: Crayons and Autumn [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Activism, And love, Autumn in Paris, F/M, Homophobia, I am kidding it all about friendship, M/M, my infinite love for jazz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:57:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008884
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrantaireandHisBottle/pseuds/GrantaireandHisBottle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While autumn plays with colors, music and emotions people need to deal with thier problems, friends and ideas. They need to fight against the whole world. But another nice cup of tea won't make any difference for the Revolution, but surely will gives some warmth to the freezing souls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In love with the Atmosphere

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ibbyliv](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/gifts).



> I am reading "The Beautiful and Damned" by E.Scott Fitzgerald now and am watching "The Midnight in Paris", so I am under the big impression. Do pardone mine melancholic spirits and lack of plot, I will add it in the second chapter. I give you my word.
> 
> Also I used a quote from "TBaD" at the beginning.
> 
> P.S. I have no mood to check the spelling in the story right now. Sorry(

_Life plays the same lovely and agonizing joke on all of us._

Sometimes, when the Sun is gentle and the sky is creamy blue, the whole picture around looks like a Palaroid photo. Soft, shining with the shades of the Sun. With hints of home and warm blankets and the most amazing scents of the evening tea. And the air itself sounds like La Valse D'Amelie.  
The small shops with old and dusty romantic books are standing near lovely cafes, compact Peugeots are running down the streets, the terrifically magnificent Arc de Triomphe and soft street lights, the rain dancing its tango across the balconies and windows, reflecting the Eifel Tower and Les Invalides , ridiculously and expensively beautiful Chanel, bikes and colorful umbrellas, the bouquets of flowers and smells, street performers and peaceful parks, restaurants and waiters’ suits, rich wine and the scent of the candles… Love, friendship, cries and laughter, freedom and jazz, a bit nostalgic , jet sweet.  
It’s all Paris, their Paris.  
A young man opens his green eyes and slowly smiles. He is lying on a warm bed, which has a garland of lights on its railing. Those little lights give the wamth and illuminate the dreams, which this boy has.  
Ginger hair tickles pale cheeks with freckles on them. His body is hidden by a big t-shirt with faded, pale, yet sweet and creamy printed flowers. And purple pants, wide enough to see his thin ankles.  
The room of the Poet Jehan is small and is located on the last floor, just under the roof. But it manages to be very cozy, with its strange wallpapers. His friend Grantaire and Jehan himself have painted them: now there are a bike, a kite, clouds, tulips, cups and the Eifel Tower. On the table there are many sheets of papers, on the floor are lying books in a weird order together with flowers in pots.

The apartment may look small, but it is certainly bigger on the inside. 

It is Sunday and Jehan is going to meet his friends and soulmates. A smile touches his lips when he thinks about them. Pouring himself tea, Jehan watches Paris from his window. He compares the warmth from the mug and the one, which is coming from the window. Autumn is showing her affection to people. It always does, but then repays with rains and cold in the tips of the feet.

Jehan thinks about yesterday events. He feels terribly hurt and he can’t understand the reason, but he smiles any way. The publisher refused to public his new poetry, saying “it is too intimate, too private and discovers parts of the soul, which must not be opened to public. In other words, your poetry is too homosexual, Jehan.” Salty water drop slides down his cheek, but the poet wipes it away, turns around and opens the widow. He inhales the life of the city. The most hurtfully romantic city. Jehan is fine. Tears don’t count.

Every emotion has its own music as well as every color has its own History period and music genre. Of course autumn has its own style, its tune. Poetry breathes with sounds of piano and violin. But everything is Beautiful and Damned.

 

“Courfeyrac our dearest sleeping beauty, wake up.” The figure of Combeferre appears in the doorway with a cup of coffee in his right hand.

Courfeyrac is sleeping, tangled in his blanket, hugging the pillow. His red trousers are lying near his laptop on the floor. 

In the room there is enough space for Combeferre’s bed. Enjolras sleeps in the living-room, mostly, sitting by his desk, lost somewhere in the middle of his books, laptop, cups and pens.

Their apartment is big and bright. On the walls hang vinyl records and there are lots of modern devices lying together with books and different notes on the tables. Corfeyrac’s cloths and other stuff can be found on every horizontal surface. Bowties, earphones, gloves and braces, DVDs…

At first Enjolras tried to fight against that. At first he honestly tried to find his own cloths, buried under the depths of Courfeyrac’s stuff. In ungodly hours of the morning, when Enjolras were in the hurry for his classes, he was ending up, failing miserably. Courfeyrac doesn’t mind his friends wearing his own sweatpants or t-shirts. As for himself, he can and does take Combeferre’s shorts and Enjolras’s socks absent-mindedly.

But then Enjolras has decided that his merry friend has deserved to do the laundry for all of them as well as sweep the floor every Saturday and wash all the dishes. 

Courfeyrac does that from time to time, but only when he can’t find any clean plates in the kitchen. Or when Combeferre starts throwing Courfeyrac's dirty t-shirts in the bin without a word. Or when Enjolras silently hides Courfeyrac’s keys from their apartment. 

 

“Courfeyrac, we are going to the meeting in 20 minutes and I am not going to wait for you.” Enjolras says loudly, weeping his hair as he comes out of the bath-room bare chest in his khaki sweatpants. Combeferre sighs and takes a sip of his coffee as he walks to the window to let some fresh air. “After all it was your idea, not mine. I still can change my mind.”

“Revolution can wait till afternoon, so can you.” The muffled voice sounds somewhere between the pillow and the blanket. 

 

The weather outside is nice. It’s warm with the soft blue sky above. It contrasts beautifully with yellow leaves, red woods and colorful fashion of Paris. To hide and sit without the weight of the outside world’s troubles, chatting and hugging, laughing and watching the shape of the runaway summer. Jardin des Tuileries can protect and hide from the never ending pace of Paris’s life. There, in the Secret Garden, a crowd is transforming, changing, becoming peaceful. Here is possible to see and feel so many hints, scents and memories at the same time. To taste Art and inhale Freedom, to listen the music of the piano in the air and hug the inspiration itself.

That’s why Jehan, Grantaire, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Marius, Cosette, Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel and Enjolras have decided to spend the day there. Just because it’s only the beginning of autumn and it doesn’t look melancholic yet.


	2. Young and Beautiful

Grantaire is young. His body is young and in a more or less good form. His health is still good, but drinking eventually will show up its disgusting side effects. Grantaire boxes without a constant interest, but still his results are quite promising. His dark curls and blue eyes give an impression of a romantic person. But besides the romantic color, his eyes usually have a sarcastic hint, which matches the smile on his thin lips. 

Grantaire doesn’t have lots of trust in people. He doesn’t like History.

__

“People can’t not like History. They don’t like their own past, their History.”

In his own past there were lots of moments which he wishes to forget. There are lots of reasons why he drinks, why he decides to jump deep in the burning depths of the alcohol oblivion. 

He can hate the world around him. He has the right. But he doesn’t hate it. There is still something important left for him. 

People, who wait for him in Jardin des Tuileries is the main reason for his soberness as well as his drunken dreams.

 

He walks down the park, watching people around him. Grantaire’s gaze is hidden by the sunglasses, but his body shivers under his hoodie. Army boots and dark blue jeans can’t really protect from the already cold wind and still teasing Sun. 

Grantaire watches a girl, who is walking near her Dad with headphones in her ears, trying to ignore his apologies. Grantaire smirks as the father tries desperately to make his daughter look at him.

His blue eyes wonder around. The bittersweet warmth appears in his stomach as he notices the group of students in the distance. He smiles carefully, thinks about golden locks and –

Grantaire freezes, but only for one second as his brain realizes what is happening. 

The ginger haired man in a big t-shirt with pale rainbow printed on and light blue jeans rides on the bicycle near Grantaire. His ankles are visible, on his feet are white Converse, big glasses on his nose and the most genuine smile on his freckled face. Jehan smiles and waves his hand as he stops near his friend.

But the next moment two men appear near Jehan from the nearest bench. They hiss to him something, but Grantaire can’t hear them. Their movements are rough and jerky. A sudden coldness wraps itself around Grantaire’s heart.

 

And then everything becomes quick, desperate and unfair. Two men kicked Jehan’s bike and grab him, while Grantaire jumps to them, trying to stop the the start of the fight. The bigger from the two strangers hits Jehan’s stomach and the second one’s fist collides with Grantaire’s jaw. Fortunately Grantaire’s body is in a more a less good form and he boxes well. He pushes Jehan away, protecting his body from the forceful hits of the two people. 

In Grantaire’s eyes appears pale, but dangerous fire. He licks his thin lips, while his right hand tries to push Jehan back. “Come on, guys, what’s up? Haven’t expected me?”

A flock of pigeons flies away, making the sound of the fluttering wings. 

The Artist ducks and the large hand of a brunette squeezes air. Grantaire, half dancing, half boxing with both of the men, slowly makes them focus on him instead of Jehan. The Poet with wide open eyes steps backwards. It looks like fear has paralyzed him for a moment. But then, pulling his ginger hair away from the face, he graciously, but determined moves forward. 

Boom. Grantaire’s fist v.s. the brunette’s cheekbone. Boom. Jehan and Grantaire, standing back to back, fighting against two figures in leathern jackets. And to be honest, the view of their fight is not a pleasant one. It’s chaotic and rough with Grantaire’s spilled bottom lip and an already purple bruise above Jehan’s left eye.

And then they have noticed the figure of Courfeyrac. Moment later Combeferre and Feuilly are trying to drag away the man with short brown hair. Marius, receiving a punch on his childish face. 

Grantaire realizes that right now the fight is unfair. But he is angry, because he knows the reason. Because Jehan, his best friend, is not like the most people. Because France, the most democratic country in Europe still has people, who…

A sudden pain has made Grantaire stop thinking about the reason. His whole body shakes and he has almost lost the balance. Someone’s hands grab his shoulders. Those hands are warm…

“I said, that’s enough!!”

There is a strange thing about Combeferre. Maybe because he is a philosopher. Or because his voice is soft and deep. Maybe because he can kick someone’s asses with an aristocratic grace and then start negotiations. Nevertheless, everyone suddenly freezes and glances at him.

“Look at you. We are living in XXI century and still act like creatures of the Dark Ages…”

“Fagots. No, _you_ look at yourself!” the brunette glares at Jehan with pure disgust. “Everyone is so excited with the new policy in France! Now you can fuck each other openly, in the parks, where our kids can see you. Now gay relationships is normal and even popular.” Bahorel and Marius tighten their grip at the man’s forearms. “This is not natural, it’s…”

Enjolras feels by his fingertips how Grantaire’s muscles move as he breathes. “Sometimes men and women do terribly awful things together and everyone is so happy about that, because, duh, it is heterosexual. I don’t give a fuck, because I don’t even believe that some people deserve true love.” His mocking smile is red and cynical. “What’s your problem? You’ve found your son fucking with his best friend on your sofa, while you were working hard on your pitiful job with dry toast for breakfast?” he laughs bitterly as the face of the second man becomes blank. “Welcome to reality, mon amie.”

The two strangers look at the young men around them. At their faces, young and beautiful. At the passion in their eyes. Lips full of words and foreheads full of ideas. The brunette feels sad for them, because they believe and fight so eagerly.

Maybe because they are still young and beautiful. But in the end only aching souls will be left for them.

Enjolras touches Grantaire’s shoulder and makes a step. “I am ashamed.” His voice trembles with the power of the orator and the youth of the 17 year old boy. “Ashamed of the fact that we can spill the blood and break the freedom of every citizen so easily. I am ashamed and feeling guilty for the fact, that people can be risen to the fight again each other so easily.” The breath of the wind plays with Cosette’s fair hair. “You only need a spark and the fire is in your soul. It is eating you from the inside. You do not want to face the fact that there are more serious problems. We are having an incredibly high level of unemployment in the country, we have censorship in the literature and yet you fight against that not. ” 

Courfeyrac in his dark red bowtie narrows his eyes, watching the crowd that is slowly appearing around them. Enjolras always can attract the attention of the audience with his voice, so deep and young and melodic at the same time. With his hair and the shine of his eyes. And of course with his ideas, which makes the mind race and turn blood into wine.

“Because it is so easier to be angry with everything which seems abnormal. Everything, but not the main reason.” He squeezes Grantaire’s shoulder and for a second the Artist thinks that the young Apollo is stealing his life energy to support the speech. The blood on the lips is still warm and sticky and Jehan is pressing hand to his right side, breathing heavily. 

But no, Enjolras is impressive. He is as bright and distant as the Sun itself and as cold as the stars across the galaxy. He uses every possibility to change the world, sacrifing his friends and own mental health. 

“You are all afraid of changes, because to change you need to decide and to be courageous. You need to realize that your little organized world is a part of well-build corporation…”

Combeferre closes his eyes, realizing what is going to happen now. Joly bites his bottom lip and Cosette glances at Enjolras with pity in her hazel eyes.

“You use even his pain for your own purpose, Apollo.” He pushes Enjolras’s hand away.

Granatire’s voice sounds sharp in the little pause, which Enjolras has made between the sentences. His head silently turns to the Artist, who is standing next to him.

Some teenagers laugh silly as they watch the silence before the answer. A young couple looks sympathetically at Jehan, whose face has the mix of pain and shame. Chinese tourists quietly ask each other whether this is the street performance or not.

“Yes, Apollo, you are a brilliant leader, a Revolutionary from Nature, but sometimes it is good to be a human too. There has been a fight, an unfair one, Jehan is injured and you are making your pompous speeches for the merry band of buffoons from Musain.” Grantaire’s eyes are so bitter. He wants to cry out loudly, he wants Enjolras to make him shut up, he wants Enjolras to punch him, hard and prove that he is wrong. But Enjolras’s face is beautiful and merciless. 

They just watch Grantaire, picking up Jehan’s bike. Then he takes the Poet’s hand.

“Nono, Ferre, stay here, you have your own patient to take care.” Grantaire’s lips twist in the half-smile, mocking and bloody.

 

Two of them walk away slowly. The Artist is limping a bit, but he holds the hand of his friend firmly. They are not lovers, they are something more. Soulmates. Jehan met Grantaire in the public bus. He saw pale lips and bright eyes. They smiled to Jehan. Between them were air and histories of the bus’s passengers. The man with dark curls showed Jehan how to smile even when his blue eyes were sad and fogged. He turned up the corners of his lips with his index fingers, making Jehan laugh.

They walk away, having no strength to be there, between their friends.

_Will you still love me_   
_When I'm no longer young and beautiful?_   
_Will you still love me_   
_When I got nothing but my aching soul?_   
_I know you will, I know you will_   
_I know that you will_   
_Will you still love me when I'm no longer beautiful?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry that it has taken some time to update, my Uni life is a busy one. Lana Del Rey "Young and beautiful", ladies and gentelmen.
> 
> I've met Granatire in the public bus. Twice. He silently showed me how to smile. His eyes are blue and his hair is curled. I am in love with the stranger form the bus. In love with his smile and hair.


	3. Help me get my feet back on the ground

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am reading two books about Julian Assange now, so I am under the effect. That's why Grantaire is a hacker here. And the Artist too. In ibbyliv's words "because why not."
> 
> Julian Assange is an Internet journalist and a hacker, who has done the biggest leak of the secret information of the world's goverments.
> 
> The name of the chapter is the immortal song of the Beatles "Help!"  
> I am sorry for the lack of plot and my English.

_Courage is contagious._

 

“We need to go to the hospital, Jehan.” 

“I am afraid of the doctors.”

“So do I. Especially of Joly But I think you’ve got broken ribs.”

“You’ve got a broken heart, but I am not dragging you to the cardiologist.” 

Grantaire reminds quiet at that remark, just keeps walking, holding Jehan’s hand.

“Sorry, it was silly of me to say that. Please forgive me, Grantaire.” in the voice of the Poet sound panic notes. 

“Forget it.” In the voice of the Artist sounds apathy.

“Please look at me.” Jehan looks desperately at his friend, tears forming in his green eyes. The hand he is holding becomes cold. They have crossed the road, passing another faceless crowd, smells of coffee, sights of souvenirs, hints of relationships and bounds. The tears run down Jehan’s cheeks. 

Ten minutes later, when they’ve reached a Metro station, it looks like Grantaire has just come back from his deep thinking. 

“Why are you crying?” he asks, pulling away his sunglasses.

“Because I’ve hurt you.” Answers Jehan. 

They are standing in the middle of the underground world and there is no better place to talk. It’s like to have a very important confession in the middle of a large party. Large parties are so intimate, you don’t have to pretend, because there are so many faces, which can hide yours from other eyes.

The thin figure of Grantaire freezes for a second. Then he approaches Jehan and they hug. “Life happens, don’t worry.”

In that particular moment, Jehan realizes what he feels for Grantaire. For their strange friendship. For their life in general. He understands that his friend is used to be hurt and pushed away. He doesn’t care about that anymore. That fact scares Jehan.

The train runs away, leaving the problems of this station far behind, heading to another place, even worse than previous. Grantaire licks his bottom lip, the green hood on his head. His gaze becomes blank when he notices a pamphlet of Les ABC pinned to the window. Enjolras mocks through his words and ideas, kills with his stupidity and beauty.

***

Grantaire’s apartment is small and not tidy, full of cables and oil paints. Jehan feels strange for this place. Here, there is a mix of beautiful Art and amazing Mind. When Grantaire is in a bad mood he paints. He pours his bitter shadow of the soul across the canvas, forming the face of his Apollo. The scratches and doodles are lying everywhere. The author uses them as table cloth and paper for his notes. But when Grantaire is not drunk and in a good mood, he has his laptop. It is old, almost a museum piece, full of colorful stickers and oil stains on it. He can hack the computer system. He has done several jobs for people, who have asked him to find information for them. Grantaire plays with codes and breaks into the secrets of someone’s life, into the credit history or office database. Not caring for the moral principles. Very often his “clients” don’t pay him. It looks like the thrill of the breaking into something private, something elegantly and carefully put together gives Grantaire inner fire. His eyes reflect the shine of the laptop, making the skin under his eyes darker. He changes his fake e-mails so often as well as his apartments. Sometimes he can live for some days in the train station, pretending that he is waiting for his train. Or in the airport. There is free wi-fi and he can pretend to be a tourist.

All clothes and stuff of Grantaire can be packed in three backpacks. He always changes his home addresses. But always comes to Jehan. Without his laptop. The Artist Grantaire doesn’t aloud the hacker R to put Jehan in danger. But he doesn’t consider himself a good hacker. He is an amateur. 

And Jehan himself feels bad for Grantaire and his hobby. He is afraid that one day the police figures out the sarcastic R and will chase him between the WWW. 

In Musain Courfeyrac jokingly names Grantaire a young Julian Assange. That has two effects: Enjolras always rolls his eyes, telling that is nonsense, because Assange fights for freedom of speech and truth itself. And Grantaire is useless, hacking their Tweeters and Facebook pages.

Grantaire in that time makes little doodles of Enjolras being all serious and lovely. Deep in his heart he is flattered to be called the legendary Assange, but words of the leader poison that feeling.

 

Jehan steps inside the apartment and almost immediately feels a hint of loneness. “Grantaire?”

The dark-haired man is searching something in the room, quietly cursing all the stuff under his feet. 

“Grantaire?” Jehan’s voice sounds desperately this time.

“Mhm?” the Artist has found painkillers and a glass of water. 

“Move to my apartment. Leave all of these, please.” He waves his hand uncertainly, pointing on the small and cold bed, big window with curtains that catch and eats the sunlight. The strange, like small green the code’s numbers, atmosphere of the room is heavy. “We will live together, where your beautiful part of the soul is left. You paint and create. Not destroying and hacking. Leave that. Come with me.” He slowly pulls his hand up and touches Grantaire’s shoulder. 

The Artist looks at him. At the ginger hair in which the Sun has tangled. In his beautiful features and freckles on his nose. And feels jealous. Because Jehan is not spoiled. He believes in the good side of everyone. He is the Creature of Light.

Grantaire watches the hand on his shoulder. “I don’t know. I have a strange feeling that I have two Grantaires in my head.”

Jehan nods. “Grantaire and R. Both of them are wonderful. But one of them is lost and needs help. Will you let me help?”

The pale blue meets the soft green. “Enjolras still hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t. That will pass. We will find something out.”

“I am not sure, I’ll manage.”

“We will start from the little. You know, happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, when one only remembers to turn on the light. ”

“You are quoting Harry Potter. Jehan, you are disgusting, when you try to cheer me up with a Potter quote while my favorite hero there was Lord Voldemort.”

“Don’t say his name!!”

 

They hug each other in the small, untidy room, full of improbable stuff. And then dance weirdly and laugh as Grantaire turns on the Great Gatsby soundtrack. His tears are wiped away with words of the _“Little party never killed nobody”_ song and Jehan’s palms. They are courage and extremely broken. They dance back to back in the room filled of smoke from Granatire’s apathy and cigarettes. 

 

***

When Jehan and Grantaire have left, all of them feel themselves uncomfortable. Cosette’s cheeks have become pale and her gaze has fogged. 

Courfeyrac glances at his friends uncertainly, not daring to break the silence. 

Combeferre smiles softly. “It’s going to rain.”

Feully sighs, feeling that his fingers are cold. The Sun has abandoned them, and the wind starts biting their skin. 

“I am going home, sorry.” Joly's voice is quiet. “I don’t know, what is going on between us, but that something is not good.” He runs his hand through his hair. Second later Bossuet wraps his hands around Joly’s shoulder. “I mean…You are my best friends, but I am confused right now and think we should have some time on our own. To straight things up or whatever.” He looks miserably, trying to analyze the thoughts and feelings of the others. Marius glances at Combeferre like if he was their only hope. 

 

Enjolras barely listens them. His gaze still tries to trace the road where the two figures have gone. He just turns around and starts walking away.

“Won’t you stop him?” Marius sounds worried.

“No. Joly is right. He needs to clear his head. He is thinking too much.”

“What if they are not going to talk never again? And there will be no Musain Revolutionaries?”

“Don’t be an idiot, Marius! It’s Enjolras and R. They always fight and then have the most glorious sex ever known to human kind.”

“That wasn’t necessary, Courf.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry, I’ve forgotten that you still believe babies are found in the garden. Or elsewhere. Hasn’t Cosette taught you anything?”

 

***

Enjolras can’t concentrate and the time is jumping backwards and forward, leaving him lost between its quick and rough movements. Enjolras hears the voice in his head, the echo of the bitter voice. It’s not true. He cares about his friends. Yet he also cares about the activism and changes of the society. Of their society. He runs into a couple, mumbles a quick _“excusez-moi”_ and walks away. 

For a moment Enjolras feels terribly afraid. He freezes in the middle of the road. He doesn’t want to think about it. Thoughts inside his mind, having the voice of Grantaire, telling him, that all his actions are pointless. There will be no changes in the world. It will be the same place again and again.

No, of course, this is not true. Everyone has a right to wish and do everything to achieve their better future. Enjolras pulls his golden locks away from his face.

And then another thought pins his heart. He has seen Grantaire all sarcastic and mocking. Almost all the time. He has seen him enthusiastic, rarely, but he has caught those moments. When the dark-haired student draws or laugh with Jehan and Courfeyrac. He has seen the bottomless pupils of his soul and eyes. Cold and distant, yet passionate and soft. Rarely, hidden, mixed and transformed, nearly broken, but it has been always there. 

Enjolras reaches for his wrist clock unconsciously. Just touches the metal and leather on his wrist, thinking and walking. He has never seen or heard angry Grantaire before. It has always been a mockery and/or sarcastic smiles, even when Enjolras has shouted at him. 

The sky slowly becomes grey. One peculiarity of the autumn weather is its changes. So quick, so sudden, so merciless. And lots of people. Running, hurrying, loving, hating, losing and finding. All together it has fallen on the head of Enjolras and he panics. He desperately looks right and left, trying to understand something very important, but it has been lost in the crowd. Enjolras feels his hands and legs and has a strange feeling that he is watching himself from the distance. In his head is a complete mess and he laughs bitterly, then realizes with confusion, that he mimics Grantaire’s attitude and the way of thinking about himself.

Enjolras inhales air and it stabs his lungs. His ember eyes hesitate and his movements are a bit uncoordinated. What if he is never going to see Grantaire again? Because, that dark-haired bastard is a part of their organization, he is an important part… maybe unnecessary important, but still a part. Enjolras’s mind protests and his lips twist in self-disgust. He is thinking about himself once again. About his own benefits. 

“Help me.” He whispers in the middle of the crowd.

Slowly and uncertainly, Enjolras makes steps through the life of the crowd. His face expression is distant, but lively. He doubts and that is very dangerous for the idealistic soul. He thinks of red and white and blue. Of red lips and white skin and blue eyes. He thinks of the softness and his own stupidity. He bites his inner side of the cheek, he changes the directions of his walk, he runs and cries his lungs out. He laughs madly and looks like a lunatic. He wants to kiss and shout and hit and then bite, he wants to win and change, to be held and to be admired. To feel and be felt. 

Emotionless, tired and empty Enjolras finds his way home. His bed and table, kitchen and empty mug, the scent of coffee and a laptop. Everything is here, where it should be. Except of Enjolras. He is not sure anymore. 

 

***  
And when Enjolras opens his laptop, logs in, he will find a message on his Facebook page. Or more correct to say, he will find out that his page has been hacked again. 

_Love you_

Written there, changing everything, helping, saving, holding. Two words and the smile in the amber eyes. 

It’s Enjolras and R. They always fight and then have the most glorious love ever known to human kind.


End file.
